I treat myself to Taco Bell
after teaching poetry
to forever people
with arrow eyes,
then I unwind with television
and it’s numbing capabilities.
The night is still spicy,
so I jerk off and think about
hotel sex with the one I love,
who is long gone.
I fall asleep quick,
unlike most nights,
and I have Harlem dreams,
one hundred without numbers.
I wonder what it’s like to grow up
with a basement;
seems so fancy and the same
goes for stairs, up or down.
Tomorrow, I will try to be productive,
and write and make a few calls,
keeping the momentum,
from poetry and orgasms,
and a rare good night's rest,
hopefully unhindered by the ceiling.